XXXV 
  
WINDOWS 
  
  
WHOSO looks from without into an open 
window never sees so much as he who looks at 
a closed window. There is nothing more pro-
found, more mysterious, more fertile, more 
darksome, more dazzling, than a window 
lighted by a candle. What one may see in 
sunlight is always less interesting than what 
passes behind the glass. In this black or shin-
ing cavity life lives, life dreams, life suffers. 
Beyond the waves of roof I see a woman, 
middle-aged, already wrinkled, poor, always 
bending over something, who never goes out. 
With her face, her clothing, her gesture, almost 
nothing, I have re-constructed the story of this 
woman;—or rather, her legend. And some-
times I tell it to myself, and weep. 
If it had been a poor old man, I could have 
reconstructed his history just as easily. 
And I lie down to sleep, proud of having 
lived and suffered in others than myself. 
Perhaps you will say to me, “Are you sure 
that your fairy tale is true?”